


The Heirloom

by Karri



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:12:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karri/pseuds/Karri
Summary: Thranduil must decide the fate of an heirloom of Doriath.





	The Heirloom

 

 

 

oOoOoOo

Thranduil's hand hovered uncertainly above a wrapped bundle on the table in front of him. He could recall the contents with such clarity that he hardly needed to open the package to feel the fine weave of the fabric or appreciate the intricate detail of the trim, embroidered with thread made of the finest mithril. He could even recall the scent of it – or, at least, the scent of it last he'd held it to his face and wept into its softness. It was a longing to enjoy again that sweet fragrance that finally brought his hand down to rest upon the bundle; yet, still, he hesitated.

_It's not as though it is a Silmaril_ , he reminded himself, embarrassed by his reticence, but unable to squelch it.  _It shall not burn me with a touch or infect my soul with its beauty. It is not even dragon treasure, or aught else upon which a curse might lay,_  he continued with his silent rebuke. "What is there to fear?" he finally asked himself with audible disdain for his own cowardice.

"You need not open it," whispered a patient voice in his ear, as a gentle hand wrapped around his waist and a soft body pressed against him supportively. "No one will think less of you should you simply pack it away again, or even burn it." That brought Thranduil's sharp gaze down upon his wife, but she merely pressed her head to his shoulder. "Do not pretend it has not crossed your mind, though I know you would not truly have the heart to do it."

Thranduil sighed. He could not deny that he had considered the option, but neither did he wish to put voice to the idea; there was too much value in the memories attached, no matter the pain that accompanied them. Thus he focused on the crux of her words and admitted in a quiet murmur, " _I_  shall think less of  _myself."_

A gentle squeeze was all the response his wife offered, and so he continued, "I have let my fear of it rule my actions for too long already." He sighed, wearily. "It should, by rights, have gone to our grandson long ago; yet, I hesitated, and his father misread that hesitation as desire to bestow it upon Legolas when he came of age. I did not tell you that he begged me keep it, save it for Legolas, to deny his child a birthright for the sake of my unspoken fear…" Thranduil confessed. "What will he think if I do not now grant the birthright to Legolas? If I pack it away, hoard it…"

"Hoard it?" his Queen repeated, dubiously. "You, hoard anything for yourself? Nay, my love, your people do not think so little of you that any, let alone our daughter's husband, would think that your motivation."

"Mmmm," responded Thranduil, noncommittally. The creeping shadow had brought with it all sorts of rumors that were not always as quickly dismissed as they ought to be; Thranduil knew well that the rumor of a greedy Elvenking hoarding piles of treasure was among them. He did not doubt his peoples' faith in him, but shadow had a way of seeping into even the most faithful souls.

"He  _will_  understand," the soft voice of his queen insisted. "You need only explain it to him." She gave Thranduil a gentle squeeze. "Tell him its tale…"

Thranduil opened his mouth to say Baelorn knew the tale, but his queen interrupted, "Nay, my love, not lore of record.  _Your_ tale of it – the memories, the pain, the fear…"

Thranduil's head drooped at the thought of confessing so much.

"There is no shame in that tale, my love," his queen assured. "It is not an easy tale, but it is one of strength and courage and hope. Do not forget that in the memory of the fear and pain."

Thranduil nodded, and indeed, in his heart, he comprehended the truth of her words; yet even as he was tempted to hide parcel away, his memory drifted back to his first sight of it, and the joy on the face of he who wore it.

oOoOoOoOoOo

"He has not yet returned," Eirien announced, as Thranduil bounded in from the hallway in search of his brother. His brother's wife smiled sympathetically as the youngster drooped with disappointment. "You are welcome to stay and wait with us," she offered, earning a grin from Thranduil.

He had not the chance to except the offer, however, as cheerful singing alerted them to Thaliorn's imminent arrival. Thranduil had only a moment to ponder the source of his brother's good spirits before the elf in question appeared, a wide grin lighting his face and a new cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

"Ooh," Thranduil gasped appreciatively, no longer wondering at his brother's unexpected mood. The cloak, clearly new, was very fine – finer than even their father's.

Thaliorn laughed and twirled once, to allow his younger brother to fully appreciate his new raiment, before removing it with a flourish. Folding it neatly over his arm, he passed it to Thranduil. "And you have not even felt its softness yet," he remarked, with a wide smile.

Thranduil accepted the cloak gingerly, his eyes growing wide at the luxurious feel of the fabric. However, it was the finely embroidered trim that captivated him most. His fingers wandered almost greedily over the intricate patterns.

"Woven with fine mithril thread," Thaliorn remarked, noticing his brother's enchantment. "Or at least that is the tale Mablung tells…"

"Oh, it must be true, then," Thranduil declared, promptly, "for Mablung would never say it if it were not."

"Indeed, it must be true," Thaliorn agreed. He was too acutely aware of his younger brother's admiration for the warrior to disagree; nor was his own opinion of Mablung any less.

"Where did you get it?" Thranduil asked, his fingers still wandering across the fine trim even as he turned his gaze upon his brother.

"It is a gift from Mablung himself," Thaliorn announced, pride and pleasure nearly bursting from him as his younger brother's eyes grew ever wider. "Indeed," he assured. "It is true. He has given it in recognition of my advancement from apprentice to master."

Thranduil head cocked, curiously, as wondered at his brother's words. He had not long to wait for clarification, however, though it came from Eirien, rather than his brother.

"You have been given command of the northern march?" she deduced, with a grin that matched her husband's. Thaliorn merely nodded.

The joy and pride filling the room was infectious enough that Thranduil couldn't help smiling, as well, but a twinge of sadness tugged at his heart as he turned his gaze back to the silver trim. Burying his face in the soft fold of the cloak, Thranduil breathed in deeply the scent of his brother, which already permeated the fabric, and lamented silently,  _He will be forever away and I shall never see him._

oOoOoOoOoOo

"If only that had come to pass,"Thranduil mused pensively, as he drifted from memory back into the present. He found, to his surprise, that his fingers had unbound the bundle and now held his brother's prize, and he could not stop himself from pressing the soft fabric to his face and breathing deeply the scent of it. Could he still smell the aroma of his brother? Thranduil wasn't certain, but he thought, just maybe, a hint of Thaliorn lingered still.

"If only what had come to pass?" his queen inquired, and Thranduil abruptly remembered her presence.

A blush tinged his cheeks as he lowered the cloak and turned his gaze upon his love. Smiling sadly, he responded simply, "Lost in a memory…"

"That is good," his queen replied. "You remember, my love, and perhaps you'll find the answer you seek." Then, she rose up on her toes and kissed him lightly, before untangling herself and turning to leave.

Thranduil watched her go, and then sat and raised the cloak to his face once more.  _Could the scent of him really linger still,_  he wondered to himself,  _or it is simply the longing for him that lingers… For I miss him so – every bit as much as I feared I would and more. If only… If only he had gotten to join the northern march, perhaps…_

Thranduil didn't bother finishing the thought, for wishing something different did not make it so. Thaliorn had not been given a chance to join the march. Instead Hurin Thalion had come, and brought with him the Nauglamir and the curse of Morgoth. Instead of commanding men, his brother had died fighting dwarves alongside Mablung in the very halls of their home, and the cloak had been wrapped around his brother's still grieving wife as all that remained of the Sindar fled Doriath in the wake of the Feanorians.

_If only it had been left behind,_  Thranduil could not stop himself from wondering.  _Would it have made a difference?_

His mind wandered again to the Mouths of the Sirion

oOoOoOoOoOo

"Nay, you should keep it," Thranduil heard his mother insist and peeked out from beneath his blanket to see Eirien wrapping Thaliorn's cloak around his mother's shoulders.

"Hush, you need its warmth more than I," Eirien insisted, and Thranduil agreed.

His mother had not endured the long march to Mouths of the Sirion well. He supposed it was as much do to grief as the hardships of the journey, but the cause mattered not. She was too thin and too pale… _and too sad,_ Thranduil surmised, pensively.  _She always seemed so strong, and yet it has all bled away... I will lose her, too, I fear. She will fade away to naught before long._

The realization brought a sigh to his lips, but he choked it down before it could escape and reach his mother's ears.  _She has too much weighing upon her already; she does not need my grief for her added to it._

He watched his mother a while, rather than settle back into bed. A part of him hoped that, if he simply tried hard enough, he could, by sheer force of his will, make her strong again, make her stay with him; the rest of him, though, knew that he could not; that some things – that thing – was beyond the force of his will to accomplish.

_She will not be alone in Aman, at least,_ he consoled himself, as he watched his mother bury her face in Thaliorn's cloak, and he knew that she was breathing deeply the lingering scent of her eldest child. A pang of loss, both past and impending, thrummed through Thranduil's heart, and he lay back down again, ready to sleep and escape his grief, if only for a few hours.

oOoOoOoOoOo

_The Feanorians spared me the pain of watching her slowly fade, at least,_ Thranduil acknowledged, as his mind returned to the present.  _Though they deserve no gratitude for it,_ he finished the thought, grimly.

Breathing deeply the scent of the cloak once more, Thranduil tried to detect even a hint of his mother's aroma. But, though he could pretend, at least, that Thaliorn lingered there still, his mother did not.  _She did not own it long enough to imbue a part of herself into it,_ Thranduil supposed.

He shuddered, remembering unbidden the cacophony of sounds and smells, the fear and fury, the blood and mud, the smoke and flame, as the Feanorians took his mother from him by sword, as then took Eirien also, and left him alone with naught but a bitter, grieving father… _and the cloak. Would that they had at least taken that burden from me..._

Thranduil sighed.  _Nay, it is not cursed,_ he reminded himself.  _No more than I, or anything else that came from Doriath…_

Yet, convincing himself of that truth had not prevented the spark of fear that had ignited in his heart when next he laid eyes upon the cloak. Thranduil buried his face deeper in the fold of the soft fabric and his mind drifted again into memory…

oOoOoOoOoOo

"Oh, grandfather!" Thranduil heard his son gasp and his mind registered the broad, warm, grin upon his child's face, yet his own features had frozen. Indeed, it felt to him as though his very breath had turned to ice.  _How can that be,_ he mused abstractly,  _with such a fiery spark of fear burning through my soul._

But even as he acknowledged the feeling, he chastised himself.  _It is but a cloak – an heirloom of our people. It is not of Morgoth, or Feanor, or any other hand that would carry doom with its touch._ Yet, reason did not stifle the emotions that flared at the sight of the cloak he had last seen fall from his frail mother's shoulders as she fled from swords he could not defeat.

"How..." he stammered, unable to fathom how the cloak had found its way across the Anduin and into the Greenwood.

"We had little left of our heritage to bring with us when we fled eastward; I could not leave it behind," explained Oropher, too pleased with his grandson's reaction to the gift to notice his son's aghast expression.

"But…" Thranduil began, but then stopped himself.  _It is not cursed. It is NOT! It is simply a cloak…_ Yet for all his insistence, Thranduil could not stop the shudder than coursed through him as his son wrapped the cloak around his shoulders with a grand flourish.

_It is his heritage, his birthright…_ Thranduil told himself, as his eyes caught a glimpse of his brother's joyful light reflected in his son's delighted expression; in his mind's eye, though, he saw the glint of swords and blood…so much blood.

oOoOoOoOo

Thranduil shivered as his mind returned to the present. His hands still held the cloak, and he stared at it.  _It is not cursed. That is what I told myself before, and what came of that? I let my father hand my son his doom in the form of a cloak, just as Eirien wrapped it around my mother, and Mablung gave it to my brother, and all were lost – giver and receiver, side by side, butchered. It shall not happen again!_ Thranduil rose to his feet resolved. He would burn it!

Yet, even as he decided, his hands shook at the thought of destroying this last link to so much that he had loved and lost.  _Thaliorn will laugh at me. He will say it was but a cloak, and naught but by own fear that tarnished it. And he will be right,_ Thranduil determined, his resolve of a moment before draining from him.  _For what did the cloak do but bring joy to my brother before his death, and comfort my mother before she died, and delight my son… They, all of them, would have been no less caught up in the dooms that took them without that joy or comfort or delight. Wouldn't they?_

Still, Thranduil's stomach twisted at the thought of passing the cloak to Legolas, or Belegorn, for that matter. Thus, he carefully folded it back up, prepared to bundle it away once more. But then…

_Perhaps..._  A smile lit his expression as epiphany struck. Fingering the intricate mithril trim, he mused,  _Must it stay in this form? For have not I, and all those Sindar who followed my father across the Anduin, become altered somewhat from what we were? We call ourselves Sindarin still, yet we have been reshaped into the elves of the Greenwood. Cannot this raiment still be a legacy of my family while in another form?_

Resolution returned to Thranduil's heart as the image of a fine shirt of Mithril mail, with a trim of finely embroidered mithril-thread, formed in his mind.  _Legolas shall receive his birthright, and with it all the joy and comfort and delight that is its legacy, and protection also! For that shall be the new shape of our legacy!_

The end.


End file.
